Thirty Days
by Smart Alex
Summary: A series of ficlets and drabbles written for different themes, featuring various characters and unrelated stories. Now with new stories!
1. Together

Written for the December themes at livejournal community 30 Hath.

**Together**

1. _all is change_

They were in the same compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Their mother told them to stick together, after all, and even if they hadn't been twins they would've. Neither of them had been on a train before, but there was another girl in their compartment who had. She spent a good half of the trip telling them all about how trains worked, and where they could take you, until finally the trolley came and they bought some Cauldron Cakes to share.

They were going to share a trunk, too, because they reasoned they'd be in the same House anyway - how could they not be? They were twins, after all, and had always been together - but their father had talked to some friends at the Ministry who told him that every child had to have their own trunks, just in case, and so they didn't. The others in the compartment thought that incredibly odd. "Of course you two'll be together," said the girl with the funny name. "Who could separate you?" They could tell that she was being sarcastic, but it was only expected after they'd spent ages conferring quietly before asking if she was named after a plant or a crayon. In any case, not sharing a trunk did make it easier to find their school robes, though, because the one with longer sleeves was in a separate trunk from the one with the torn hem.

They were in the same boat on the way to the castle, and clutched each other's hand during the brief voyage. They were both nervous, and it showed in their sweaty palms, and they both jumped when they first saw the ghosts go by in the Great Hall. "No need to be so nervous," said a boy with an awfully turned-up nose. "Sorry," they whispered, together.

When the Sorting Hat started to Sort the other first-years into their Houses, they shared a smile, because they knew they'd be together. "See you soon," they told each other, when the Sorting Hat called the younger, and they were split up for the first time.

But then Padma went to Ravenclaw by herself, and Parvati went to Gryffindor with Lavender Brown, and everything changed.


	2. Easy Deceit

Set during HBP.

**Easy Deceit  
**2. _we practice to deceive_

He had to find a way to sneak around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade without getting caught. An Invisibility Cloak was out of the question, because that was so obvious and besides, rumor was that Potter had an Invisibility Cloak. Draco absolutely refused to do anything like Potter. But how else could he obtain a suitable disguise?..  
He had a mental image of Professor Snape glaring at him for not getting the answer straightaway when it was right there in front of him. Question eleven on the Potions OWL, after all -- name three ingredients found in a Polyjuice Potion.

Now all he needed was someone to Polyjuice himself into.

-

"Mr. Malfoy, see me after class," said McGonagall, to the snickers and hoots of his fellow classmates.  
The Slytherins scrambled out, and Draco was left alone with the Transfigurations professor.  
"You haven't turned in any of your homework for the past week," she said, watching him for any signs of guilt. Draco kept his face unreadable, and said "Yes, Professor."  
"Your status as Prefect means you are supposed to be an example to the other students," McGonagall continued. "Neglecting your homework does not set a good example."  
"I know, Professor," Draco said.  
McGonagall sighed, and rubbed her forehead. "Is there anything going on, Mr. Malfoy, that you would like to tell me or Professor Snape about?"  
"No, everything's fine," Draco lied. "I promise to work harder, Professor."  
He of course intended no such thing, because making the Polyjuice Potion was taking up nearly all of his spare time, but McGonagall believed him and let him off with a warning.  
A few months ago, Draco thought, he might have been afraid of lying to a teacher so easily. Now he merely reveled in his ability to deceive so easily.

-

Mariana Pendle was eleven years old and looked to be about eight. She always looked as if she wasn't sure whether she ought to be incredulous or upset. To top it all off, she was in Slytherin. No one would ever give her a second thought.

This was why she caught Draco's attention.

Of course, they had never met; because the Pendles, while Pureblood, were of a much lower class than the Malfoys. Draco did not particularly want to be seen with her, and it would look suspicious for a 6th year to be associating with such a young girl. But he thought he could think of a way to get around that.

First off, he could ask Pansy to use her status as Prefect to find out just which classes the girl took. It would not seem out of the ordinary for an older student to be concerned with a first year. So Pansy went, and had a nice talk with the girl, and then reported back to Draco.  
"She's got double Charms first thing Thursday afternoon."  
That left him two days to plan an encounter. He nodded his thanks, and went back to his letter to his mother. He noticed after a while that Pansy hadn't left yet.  
"Is everything all right, Draco?" she asked hesitantly.  
He forced a smile. "Of course."  
For a moment, it didn't seem like she believed him, but then she shrugged and walked away.

-

Tuesday passed, Wednesday passed, and Draco made Crabbe and Goyle skip lunch on Thursday.  
"Do you two remember the plan?" he asked quietly. He didn't care to be overheard by any of the other stragglers in the common room, after all.  
The two boys grunted a positive response. Draco began to wonder if he would ever have friends who weren't absolute idiots or bodyguards, then banished the thought from his mind, having realized how stupid that sounded. If the plan succeeded, and he did gain the Dark Lord's approval, he would never need friends again.

They stood by the entrance to the common room, and waited for the girl to come back from lunch. The curved handle to the door of the common room turned and Mariana walked through by herself. Crabbe and Goyle immediately set towards her at a quick trot. Goyle knocked her book bag off her shoulder, and Crabbe purposefully spilled frog spawn all over her and her bag from a glass he was carrying. The girl blinked at her bag full of spawn, and reached up to touch one wispy braid. Her eyes began to well up with angry tears as she stared at Crabbe and Goyle, who were standing awkwardly by the door.

"What are you two clumsy oafs doing?" Draco shouted, striding purposefully towards them, and showing his Prefect's badge. "Did you spill that frog spawn you were supposed to bring Snape, Crabbe?"  
Crabbe attempted to look concerned when Goyle elbowed him.  
Draco knelt down, to be more at the girl's eye level, and disdainfully brushed some of the spawn off the bag.  
"I'm so sorry for their actions, I'm sure they didn't mean to hurt such a pretty little girl as yourself," he said kindly, wiping his hand on his robes.  
Mariana sniffled, and mumbled a response that sounded something like "izzalright."  
"Here, I'll clean this off for you," Draco said, pulling out his wand. "_Scourgify._"  
The frog spawn vanished, and the girl stared in awe at her clean books.  
"There, good as new," Draco said, and smiled, patting her head. He stood up and motioned to Crabbe and Goyle to leave.  
"Thank you," Mariana muttered, blushing, and fled towards the girl's dormitories.

Draco examined the pale strands of hair he had pulled out and carefully pocketed them.  
"Well, that was easy," he said, hardly daring to believe his luck, and strode out of the common room.


	3. The Secret of Salazar

This ficlet is rated S for Silly.

**The Secret of Salazar  
**3. _And study of revenge, immortal hate_

Salazar Slytherin did not like Muggles, they were nasty and crude and expected to have all the same rights as nobles. He especially didn't like Mudbloods, those that came into proper, Pure families and thought they could be accepted into Wizarding society. Some showed talent, true, but no one else saw that it wasn't their own talent. It was the magic of their Pureblood ancestors, their talented forebearers, those of good name; and not their own gifts. Unfortunately, Godric tended to dismiss him as living in the past, and not paying any attention to the rising power that could be trained so easily, would be trained so willingly..  
That was what was written in Salazar's journal, page one, and it was all true-- for him, at least. A cousin of his had recommended writing some key thoughts down in a journal, to sort out all his muddled, hateful thoughts, and after hexing him with a well-placed itching curse, Salazar thought this a fine idea.

Of course, his opinions never counted for much with the other two. Rowena always listened to Godric, and Helga didn't bother paying attention to any of them, but taught all of her new Mudblood students three variations on the Accusing Stare: the wounded puppy look, the blank blink, and the about-to-cry-so-help-me twitch. (It was an unfair advantage, to Salazar's eyes, because he had yet to encounter a Wizard who could resist Helga's wounded puppy expression. It was by far the dirtiest and trickiest way to win arguments, even by his standards.) He soon realized that there was no possible way to sway his colleagues to his side, not even by threatening to leave, and so Salazar Slytherin gave up his cause. He tolerated the new students, until they aggravated him so much that he had to positively flee to his Secret Chamber and have a nice cup of mead. He found the Basilisk in a teacup one day (it was no more than a baby, at the time, and its eyes were still closed) and let it live there. Maybe, he thought darkly, it could kill off a few of Mudbloods some day. He jotted the thought down in his journal, finding it worthy to be recorded, and then he went off to teach Ancient Runes, and forgot all about it.

The years went by, and the students kept pouring in to Hogwarts, and finally they hired some other teachers to help keep up. One was a nice man, a Friar, very nice and very fat but got along well with Helga. Salazar mentioned him briefly in his journal, describing him solely as 'fat', and didn't bother to add more detail. After all, who would read his private journal, other than he? He had written 'Private' and 'Cursed' and 'Beware' all over the front cover. No one would dare even open it to take a peek. And there was a special, anti-Godric Gryffindor ward on it, just in case, and it would apply to all of his descendants for years to come. Perhaps he would have his revenge, he wrote in his journal, for all those times Godric called him Sally when they were young.

Salazar had barely filled up half of the journal when he decided to go on vacation to some exotic place -- feeling that he, of all people, deserved it -- but what he had written was incriminating enough. Of course, had he had the opportunity, he would have denied loathing the Mudbloods to the point of cursing them all, and hating the other three to such an extent, and thrown in the names of a few star students of his who had been Mud-ggleborn, of course, and so on. Unfortunately, by the time the journal was discovered, Salazar had long since died (been eaten by a python, you know, only they can't put _that_ in the History Books and so they say that he just 'left') and he couldn't say anything. And that's how Slytherins have passed down so much hate through the years, by way of one measly little journal, and now that I've told you this I'll have to wipe out your memory.

_Obliviate._


	4. It's Just A Name

**It's Just A Name  
**5. _haunted_

Nymphadora Tonks hates her name. It is fussy, and old-fashioned, and sounds awful when her dad says it ('cause he only says her full name when he's mad). On the other hand, her mum says that it's a family name, and she ought to be proud of it, even though mum doesn't like her family.

Nymphadora Tonks likes when her dad tells her stories before bed, because he's very good at telling Muggle fairy-tales, stories where the wicked stepmother dies after giving Snow White the apple. Her mum has a fairy-tale book that she won't let Nymphadora read by herself, that used to be mum's when she was still a Black. (Because one time, when she was still little, she snuck away with it to look at the pictures, and had nightmares for a month from the frightening picture of the stepmother slitting Snow White's pale throat for daring to eat an apple that didn't belong to her.)

Nymphadora Tonks didn't know she was a Meta- a Meta-- a shape shifter until two summers before she got her Hogwarts letter. They had all gone to the seaside, and her mum told her stories about when her own family had gone to the seaside. Her mum had shown her a picture of them, and it was one of those strange pictures, one of the ones where they all looked happy, even mum. Nymphadora had peered at the picture, wrinkling her nose because she couldn't see herself in any of them (especially not Aunt Bella, who smirked and glared at Cousin Sirius as he dumped a bucket of sand on her head), although she did try. She was concentrating so hard that she hadn't noticed when her dad came and sternly said "Now what do you think you're doing young lady scaring your mother like that" although his face got very pale when she looked up with Aunt Cissy's face and smiled. Her mum cried a little, and then they got ice cream and her parents told her they were very very proud.

Nymphadora Tonks sometimes thinks that it would be easier if her mum hadn't been a Black, because then she could just be Mrs. Tonks instead of Andromeda Once-Was-Black and everyone would be nicer to her. On her twelfth birthday she thought about wishing for that, then wished for an owl again instead, and ended up with a new set of paints.


	5. Shadow

**Shadow  
**6. _ladies bright of hair_

All the other girls in your dormitory are asleep or nearly there. You are the one, solitary soul who is still awake, staring at your reflection in a small mirror. The reflection isn't anything new: straight black hair, usually pulled back and now hanging loose around your shoulders; long-lashed brown eyes, slightly crooked teeth. Your hands are small, and all of your fingernails have been chewed on at some point in the day. You know you're not like the other girls, who all have perfect hair, blonde curls and red ponytails and brown waves; straight teeth, and perfectly manicured fingernails. Marietta paints hers regularly, and you often help her, but she never offers to do yours because you bite your nails too frequently.

Your reflection stares back at you, a dark shadow keeping you company while the other girls sleep, and finally you whisper _Nox_ and put the mirror away.


	6. Once Upon A Time

**Once Upon A Time  
**7. _time does not change us_

_Gryffindor_

Sir Nicolas was once a knight of the kingdom, who walked the thin line between worlds. He served the Muggle king - and the funny thing was, he could never remember his name, but simply called him 'sire' and 'his highness' and hoped no one would notice - and quietly used his magic to help him with small things, like moving parchments, watering his flowers and juggling food. One day someone noticed him putting his wand away, and he was convicted of witchcraft, and sentenced to be executed.

The day of his execution, they blindfolded him before leading him to the gallows. His last breath was a quiet sob at the thought of never being able to see sunlight again. Sometimes he thinks that that is why he stayed, and still clings to that desperate thought that some day he might see sunlight again.

Ghosts can't bear bright light. It burns them, you know.

-

_Ravenclaw_

The Grey Lady once had a name, but she put it to the side in favor of learning the names of the ancient Egyptian wizards who once ruled over that distant country. She once was a brilliant witch, picking apart old spells and putting them together to form better ones; but abandoned that work so that she could study Ancient Greek as it was used in Atlantis. Once she almost fell in love, but found that her love could barely write his name, and so she picked up the broken pieces of her heart and put them into her research, trying to decipher fables and see if there really were Snorkacks in the distant Mountains.

The Grey Lady lived by herself, and worked by herself, and died by herself, and only after her death did she look and think to explore the world outside her small town.

Ghosts always travel alone.

-

_Slytherin_

The Bloody Baron does not remember his life, but remembers his death. He remembers dueling someone, his mind drawing a blank on any spells, and remembers drawing his sword but does not know why he did. When he came to, a dagger was lodged firmly in his gut, and the other's blood was covering him. His face, his hands, everything was all-over bloody, and he knew it was murder though it wasn't his fault, but he died before he could say anything.

And so he remains quiet, and bloody, and speaks to none. When he does his somber voice is gravelly from disuse. But he believes that perhaps he still has a chance to redeem himself, perhaps that is why he is still here.

Ghosts usually weren't murderers in their past life, after all.

-

_Hufflepuff_

The Fat Friar once lived outside of the castle, but that was so long ago that he can scarcely remember when. He has a vague recollection of an abbey, and being small enough to swing on the robe when he had to ring the chapel bells, but his life truly began at Hogwarts. He remembers when Dame Helga came by as he copied out another book for the school library, and told him 'I hope you always stay with us, Friar', and how she looked so very pretty as she smiled at him. He remembers dozing off in the Astronomy tower as he observed the stars, inking one last dot in on parchment before he slept, and waking up to find that he could no longer hold the parchment.

He remembers when the other ghosts came, looking for a place that they weren't even sure was still there, looking for the school they called home for so many years. He welcomed them all, and brought each to the Headmaster so that he could find a place for them. He told them all of his promise to Dame Helga, that he would stay, and guide, and encourage for as long as there were Hufflepuffs.

Ghosts can never break their promises, even if they want to.


	7. I Think

Set during OotP.

**I Think…  
**12. _your honourable infernalship_

"I think she's awful."  
"I think she's strange."  
"I think her furniture should be rearranged."  
(That was Lee.)  
"I think she's inept."  
"I think she's great!"  
"I think your face should be slammed in your plate."  
(That was Ginny.)  
"I think she's a nuisance."  
"I think she's pathetic."  
"I think she's really a severe diabetic."  
(That was Colin.)  
"I think we're all thinking the exact same thought."  
"I think we're all plotting the exact same plot."  
"I think we don't want Umbridge here in our school."  
"I think it's okay if we break a few rules."  
(That was unexpected.)  
"I think we ought to have our very own club."  
"I think 'Anti-Umbridge' should be engraved on our duds."  
"On our gloves!"  
"On our scarves."  
"On our letter-openers, and plates."  
"On our bracelets."  
"And earrings."  
"And even on--"  
"_Wait._ What if we just all joined Harry's new club, learned how to fight. You know the rub."  
(No one remembers whose idea that was.)  
"I think that sounds like an excellent idea."  
"The Hog's Head?"  
"Of course."  
"Well, we'll all be there."


	8. Middle of July

Almost a proper drabble, just two words over. (sigh.)

**Middle of July**

14. _I'm not going to tell you_

Wolf-whistles and cat-calls met his ears (which were rapidly turning pink) when Bill walked into work that morning.  
"Lucky devil," said Gringott's portrait.  
"Where'd you find a girl like that?" a Junior Clerk hooted.  
"Well I'm not going to tell you!" Bill retorted, grinning as he closed the door to his office.  
"I wonder if she has a sister," sighed another Clerk.  
In the privacy of his office, Bill let himself relax and smiled to think that every morning could be like this. That every morning, his wife (his _wife_) could kiss him good-morning and good-bye, and good-luck and everything else in-between.


	9. White Candles

**White Candles  
**_25. light a candle_

"I brought candles," Luna says serenely, and digs out a box of ordinary white candles from her bag. "They're white to keep the Noctmoths away. They eat dreams, you know."

She opens the box, and takes out a candle, blissfully unaware of the dubious looks on most of the DA's faces, and presses one into Neville's hand. "Will you try to make it last until Christmas?" she requests. "These were the last of the stock, you know."

Luna goes around the group, and gives one candle to each person. Most made an attempt to be gracious, or smile, and most put the candles out of their mind the moment it went in their bag or pocket.

Neville remembers, and looks up Noctmoths in the library as soon as he could, and finds that there is no such thing. He keeps the candle anyway.


	10. Perfection

**Perfection  
**_26. perfection of moral virtue_

"She's perfect," Mother said when Andromeda was born. "Just look at her."  
Andromeda was truly perfect, quiet as could be, a cherubic baby who looked nothing like her older sister did when she was born. Bellatrix was a sullen, yellow thing who cried incessantly. Narcissa, to her credit, didn't have any hair until she was nearly a year old, and often turned bright red from hiccupping so often.

-

"She's perfect," the guests said, as Narcissa entered, showing off her new dress robes. "You must be so proud."  
Her parents nodded, and radiated pride as they watched Narcissa visit with her friends and guests, curtsying to some and bestowing cold, polite smiles on others. They knew she would never shame them by marrying a Mudblood, or ridicule their family by professing undying adoration to some fool wizard. Narcissa was the perfect daughter.

-

"Perfect," the Dark Lord said, and she was delighted. She had known that, all though he did not assign anyone to undertake this task, it was hers. The traitors who had thought themselves safe hiding in a mere house were all dead. She had completed her task (perfectly), and pleased her Lord, and that is all that he ever asks of her.  
"You may rise, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord said, and extended a gracious hand to her. She held it in her own, pressed a kiss to it, and stood.

What does she care of looks, or society? She is doing the right thing, and that is all that matters.


	11. Fool of Love

**Fool of Love  
**_28. most loving merely folly_

"I would die for you," James often told Lily, quite fervently. In fact, that declaration was what won her over, in the long run. For James Potter was famous for having no thoughts other than 'Quidditch' 'Prank' and 'Food', and such a serious statement proved his sincerity.

It was quite touching, really. None of the other boys had ever told her that they would die for her. A few had sworn that they would die _without_ her, but that was mostly because they forgot to take notes in class again, or wouldn't have passed their Potions exam if Lily hadn't happened to mention what a good friend of hers they were to Professor Slughorn. But they were few, those boys, and they were usually quite stupid.

In fact, most every boy at school was stupid. Severus Snape seemed intelligent, but was possibly even stupider than, oh, Sirius Black, maybe. Remus Lupin was perhaps one of the most hopeful, but he would do anything for James and Sirius, as would Peter, and was often involved in horrible scrapes as a result.

But the War was changing everything. Pranks were poorly received (Brian Abbott had nearly hexed everyone in the corridor when someone had anonymously tried to turn his hair purple) and meaningless insults were understood to be threats. With each day that passed, the grim news from the outside world became bleaker, and there was less and less hope to be found.

The death tolls rose as the spring faded away, and Lily couldn't help but wonder if accepting James' devotion was wise. She knew he would die for her if he had to, and that was very nice, but wouldn't it have made much more sense to want to live?


	12. Nunc Id Vides

_Nunc id vides_ means 'now you see it..' as in 'now you see it, now you don't'. This is mostly gen, with liberal sprinklings of AU. Written for the January themes.

**Nunc Id Vides  
**_4. as we dream_

1. _Hermione_  
Sometimes, Hermione will wake up screaming. She will look around her, scrabble for books and papers that are not there, and perhaps cry. 'This is all your fault!' she thinks, scowling over her shoulder, 'If you had just let me study in peace..' And then she realizes that there is nothing there but her pillow, and the stuffed toy weasel she was given for her eleventh birthday as a joke ('There's no way you could have gotten such high scores without weaseling your way in somehow, Granger' the girls at school had said, and they had all chipped in to buy it).

Hermione wakes up, frantic because she _doesn't know anything_. She remembers odd things from her dreams, nonsense phrases and bizarre terms, but never for long and it is never enough. She thinks of hazy faces that keep appearing in her dreams, that distract her, even then, from learning and reading as she ought to, but does not know their names. They always seem disappointed when she doesn't know the answers to their questions.

Her parents have taken to wearing ear plugs at night, just to be careful. They have lost too much valuable sleep over comforting their daughter that, no, she did not have an exam, and no, she did not fail, and yes, she is brilliant and would she please go back to sleep. They don't notice that she only wails about owls and newts and never worries about actual exams. Besides, she always falls asleep again, to dream once more.

2. _Ron_  
Sometimes, Ron wonders what it would be like to have grown up a Muggle. It can't be all bad, from what he's heard from Harry and Hermione, as long as he ignores the fact that Harry's relatives are awful and that Hermione never had many friends. If he concentrates hard enough, right before he goes to sleep, he can almost see it happening.

He can see his dad, working hard as he can so that they can keep their house, one that looks ordinary but obviously well worn. His mum works, too, but only a few times a week, and that's helping out at the hospital. Bill works at at some foreign bank as a translator, and Charlie is in graduate school, but everyone knows that he's going to be a veterinarian, and he'll be brilliant at it. Percy is top of his class, and will probably go into politics, because he wants to be rich and he's good at being bossy. Fred and George are always joking, but are serious enough to try to invent all sorts of gadgets to help Mum and make Dad laugh. Ginny is forever off reading, and they all know every story about a witch or wizard by heart from having read them to her so often. And then he sees himself, Ron who's not anything special, good at chess, bad at most schoolwork, until he gets a letter..

The dream spins on, he sees his dad and Ginny excitedly asking all sorts of questions about magic, and what he can do, because they both love hearing about that sort of thing.. He sees the twins, and Percy, trying to figure out if it's a joke, or if he really is different.. Mum gives him a sandwich that isn't corned beef for the train, and makes him promise to write.. Bill and Charlie don't hear anything about his letter until he's already been at Hogwarts for months; and by that time he's made friends with Harry, who tells him all about Quidditch, and wizarding candy, and met Hermione, who's nearly as lost as he is in this magical place..

Ron dreams, but he knows that he really doesn't want anything to change. He actually does like being an only child, and doesn't know what he'd do if everything he had ever supposed came true.

3. _Harry_  
Sometimes, Harry dreams about a different world, where his parents were alive. In Harry's dream world, someone else is the Boy Who Lived. Perhaps it is Neville, who is really stronger than he seems. Perhaps the Boy Who Lived never existed, perhaps it is a Girl Who Lived. But in his dreams, it is never, ever him.

In Harry's dream world, his family isn't torn. Sirius never went to Azkaban, Remus never had to hide, Peter never wanted to betray anyone. There is no Voldemort, and no danger forever lurking. Harry can live a normal life, and have friends without worrying about if they'll have to die.

In Harry's dream world, he is confident, and always cool. He can do things, like ask girls out, without worrying about looking stupid. He could comfort Cho Chang, and know how to kiss her without being awkward. He could even make the first step with Ginny, instead of not noticing her for so long.

By now Harry knows that dreams are ways to escape reality, and he cannot afford to be gone for too long. But, still, he dreams.

Sometimes.


	13. House Pride

**House Pride  
**_22. madness of my pride_

"Let me go," Sirius snarled.  
"No," said Peter, holding him back. "You can't. You're not yourself, Sirius--"  
"I don't care," Sirius shot back, struggling against his grip. "Let me _go_, Wormtail!"  
"_Padfoot_," Peter said firmly. "Listen to me. There isn't any proof, you can't just go after him like that."  
"No _proof_?" Sirius repeated incredulously. "Haven't you seen the paper? 'Werewolves swarm village, three dead, Greyback heard declaring his allegiance to the Dark Lord', and there's no proof? It has to be him, and I'm going to find him, and tear him apart!"  
"Sirius, stop being such a bloody Gryffindor!" Peter snapped, shaking him hard. "You can't just go and be the heroic dragon-slayer all the time. Use your head, James and Lily trust Remus -- for Merlin's sake, he's one of your best friends, why can't you?"

Sirius went very still, and Peter held his breath, hoping.

"You sound like a Slytherin, evading the issue like that," Sirius said bitterly. He shook himself free, then stalked into the other room and slammed the door.

Peter sighed, and absentmindedly rubbed his left forearm.


	14. The Turning Point

Written for the February themes. Slight crossover with Fight Club, rated PG for uh, language.

**The Turning Point  
**_20. in every life there is a turning point_

It is the middle of the War. People are dying at such a fast rate that the Prophet does not even bother writing full articles or detailed reports, but adds two pages worth of names to the back every Sunday evening. Of course, half the list are Muggles, and nobody cares about them, anyway. But every so often there is a familiar name, or a surprise victim. Ernie Macmillan, aged 19, dead from refusing the Imperius spell.

"Touching, isn't it," says a drawling voice as the Sunday Prophet, a week old, is snatched from Draco's grip. "People actually fool themselves into thinking they care about how many Mudbloods die."

Draco stares up at Bellatrix's sneer, and clenches his teeth. "Do you mind?" he says calmly, adjusting his robes over his bare knees. The rim of the makeshift chamber pot is cold against his thighs.

Bellatrix ignores him, but turns away towards the lantern light, dark eyes skimming over the yellowed pages. The grey strands shimmer in her long dark hair, her sunken eyes are bloodshot, and she does not look any younger than she did three years ago upon her escape from Azkaban. She gives a short harsh bark of laughter. "Murdered, Theodore Tonks.. I should like to know who disposed of my filthy brother-in-law. I owe them my thanks."

Bellatrix continues to read over the names, occasionally crowing out loud, as if the death of the Drs. Granger was something she has personally accomplished (Draco knows she didn't, because Nott had come back with trembling hands and a satisfied look on his face), and shaking her head mockingly at most.

Draco finishes, _Scourgify_s the pot, and wipes his hands on his robes. "What is it?" he asks. His hair is falling into his eyes. It always does that, these days, since it never seems to want to stay pulled back. His mother used to cut his hair, but Draco hasn't seen his mother in a very long time, and suspects she is dead.

"The Dark Lord is returning here tonight," Bellatrix says finally, thrusting the paper back at him. (Where Is Harry Potter? reads the headline.) "He'll want your report, as well as a -satisfactory- explanation for your abysmal behavior in the last battle."

Draco wants to scream.

He knows the Dark Lord was not pleased that he let the Weasley girl get away. He knows that the Dark Lord is angry, and is coming to their hideout - for though the older group insists it is headquarters, it is nothing more than a hiding place from the Aurors - expressly to reprimand him.

The mark on his arm burns darker, echoing his thoughts, and his wand arm twitches.

Bellatrix smirks, and Draco makes a feeble attempt to grab his wand as it flies out of his belt and into Bellatrix's open hand.

"I'll hold on to this until later," she declares, wearing an expression that might have been mistaken for pity, if it had been on anyone else's face. "If you run, we will kill you," she promises.

Draco watches her leave, and decides to make his move.

-

Draco is used to smelling blood on the wind, so when it comes to him he instinctively follows it.

The back streets of London are narrow, and dirty, and the jeans and t-shirt he took from a drunk Muggle in a bar smell of cigarette smoke and stale perfume. He follows the cracks in the sidewalk, wandering under flickering lights, as his brain finally realizes what he is doing.

Draco pauses, and considers his options. Ahead of him lies a battle, behind him lies death. Should he continue on his way, maneuvering his way through garbage and the sludge of dirty rainwater on the streets? Should he return and offer himself to the mercy of Voldemort? His arm gives a sharp twinge of pain, and he presses forward, nearly walking right by the open doors of a basement flat.

He crouches down, looking past the steps and into a low room. Cigarette smoke and the scent of cheap alcohol float up and out, along with the dim grunts and cheers of a crowd. He ventures down, carefully pushing open the front door. The smell of blood hits him harder than before, and he feels the excitement and bloodlust radiating off every person in the room. There, in the center, a wiry and dark-haired man is standing perfectly still. He is shirtless, and every eye in the room is fixed on him.

"I remind you," he announces, "that if someone says "stop", goes limp, or taps out, then the fight is over. You may not continue." The man steps towards the cluster of men watching him, and yanks one of them forward.

"Apparently," the dark-haired man continues, "this guy thought he could get away with breaking the rules." He is tightly gripping the arm of an older man, whose arm is bent at an odd angle, and whose face is covered in blood. Someone in the circle boos, and they are rapidly hushed.

Draco can sense that this man is powerful. He can see it by the way the others look at him with adoration in their eyes, he sees their hostile stares directed at the bloodied man and is certain that only moments before they were cheering him on.

The dark-haired man, the leader, lets go of the other man, and quick as a flash he pushes past Draco and leaves. Another two men walk past him, carrying a bloodied, immobile man between them. The room becomes lighter, people become more excited.

The leader walks through the crowd, tapping one scrawny boy on the shoulder, and the boy dashes to the center of the room. The leader then spots Draco, and observes him.

His instincts tell him to run away fast, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Draco raises his chin, and stares back at the dark-haired man. He smiles, but only a little bit.

"I haven't seen you before, kid," the man says. "Come here."

Draco moves forward, his legs propelling him unwillingly. He is placed in the center, opposite the excited boy, who is prancing around, throwing punches at the air.

"Rule number eight," the leader says. "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

The next thing Draco knows, he is down on the floor and the other boy is kicking him in the stomach. He feels more and more like pissing himself with each and every kick the boy launches.

"Come on, get on your feet!" yells the leader. "Don't be a wimp!"

What has he gotten himself into, Draco wonders, scrambling to his feet. He ducks one punch, and is kicked again for his efforts. He looks at the boy's face, slowly turning red, and watches the boy's stringy black hair fly around his face. He sees the boy's hand reach out in another punch, and is suddenly reminded of Bellatrix's hand reaching for his wand.

Bellatrix looms above him, coming closer, his arm burns, and Draco shakes it away. _Crack_, goes the sound of fist on bone, and the image of Bellatrix's shocked face fades as Draco realizes that his fist has just impacted the boy's jawbone.

-

Draco goes again the next night. And again. And again.

Every night he comes out of the basement flat with more bruises, deeper ones, and is even taken to a Muggle hospital one night to have his finger splinted. The boy he fought with the first night explains to the Healer that he jammed his finger at a school wrestling match, and Draco doesn't bother to correct her.

Each night, his opponent takes a different face. Draco never wins, not entirely, but he is responsible for a black eye on not-Bellatrix's face, for not-Voldemort's limp, for a bloody nose for bloody not-Harry-Potter. He can't do this forever, he knows, and the Dark Mark is visible in the sky almost every night; but for now, it's enough.

Once, he comes early, and hears the rules recited in full. You do not talk about Fight Club, he hears, and understands it to be what it is. In real life, Fight Club does not exist. In real life, Muggles are considerate, ignorant creatures who wouldn't hurt a soul. They would never meet in basements and garages all over London - especially not all over the world, as the dark-haired man claimed - to fight each other until they choke on their own blood.

Fight Club makes being a Death Eater unnecessary, for the first time in Draco's life.


	15. Six Steps To Cynicism

Written for the March themes.

**Six Steps to Cynicism  
**_21. said that I should believe him_

"You won't even notice I'm gone," he said when he left, whispering into her ear.  
"You've got all the others to play with, yeah?"  
They all claim that she couldn't possibly remember when Bill left (because she was too  
young), but she did, she remembered being held for one last cuddle, shifting anxiously  
in her fuzzy worn pajamas.  
She remembered crying herself to sleep in her mother's arms as the red train huffed  
and puffed its way down the track.  
"I'll be back for Christmas," he told them, and she believed him.

-

He was too excited, he wouldn't stop to listen or say goodbye to anyone. He packed,  
and prattled, and asked Bill a million questions and answered a million more. He carefully  
took down all of his Quidditch posters from the walls of his room, and left up all the  
paintings that she and Ron and the twins had done for him. She painted him another one, a big blotchy pink-and-orange-and-blue-and-black dragon, and hid it in his trunk.  
"What's this?" he asked, pulling it out, and squinting.  
She told him it was for him. Because otherwise he might forget her.  
"Oh," said Charlie, rolling the paper back up. "Thanks. I'll put it in my room, there."  
She believed him, too, but months later she found the paper rolled up under his bed,  
covered in dust.

-

"Could I really?" she asked, wide-eyed.  
"Definitely," said Percy, chest puffed out. "You'll be the first girl Minister of Magic.  
Only after I retire, of course."

-

"You see, the trick is that-"  
"-Mum will let you do anything if you only-"  
"-have an alibi. Also, you need a partner, and-"  
"-as you can see, we've worked out quite nicely, and-"  
"-we don't really feel like taking on another one-"  
"Sorry," the twins chorused.  
But they winked at her as soon as Ron's back was turned.  
"We didn't mean that we didn't want _you_," they said later, and she said all right, and  
agreed to lend them her doll. Only for a bit, though, because they promised that her doll  
would come back as good as new. Even though last time she came back bald and missing an ear.

-

Ron thought it was the mark of a good older brother to take her aside, and warn her  
about the various problems in the castle. Skip that step, it'll chew your ankle; don't  
go that way, 'cos that's where those Slytherins are; if you're late to Transfigurations  
and you only see a cat then you'd better apologize because that's really McGonagall; every  
Wednesday they serve treacle tart and it's brilliant.  
"Harry hates it, though," he had said with a frown. "Usually he'll wolf everything down,  
quick as anything, but whenever there's treacle tart he takes _ages_. He just picks at it.  
Like it's a bogey on his plate, or something."  
("Ron!" Hermione scolded, looking vaguely ill, because they were at dinner by then.)

She told Tom how odd that seemed, and never gave a second thought to it until one  
sunlit afternoon by the lake when Harry suggested they sneak down to the kitchens and get food,  
and he delightedly consumed four pieces of treacle tart.

-

"Ginny," he whispered urgently. "Ginny. We have to go."  
She felt him shake her awake, pushing aside the covers, breathing heavily. She opened  
her eyes, squinting in the dark at his tall, lanky form.  
_What are you doing here?_ she whispered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes sleepily.  
"No time to explain," he replied, eyes darting around, as if expecting someone to barge in  
any moment. "Come on, we have to leave."  
She asked him why as she pushed her hair behind her ear, fingers grasping her wand.  
"I told you," he repeated, sounding annoyed. "There isn't time to explain. Please, Gin,  
just come with me before it's too late.."  
He held out his hand, his green eyes shining luminous behind his glasses as she looked up  
at him. She took his hand, stood up, and in another moment he had flown halfway across  
the room, blasted away by the force of her Expelliarmus spell.

_I don't believe you_, she said.


	16. Put It In Writing

Written for the June themes.

**Put It In Writing  
**_28. 'Hey, Mrs. Potter, won't you talk to me?'_

There are two letters that she has never regretted sending, although she knew that she would never receive a personal response. Both letters were written in fits of desperation, without much care for whether or not they were written properly or looked nice. One is probably dirt-stained and torn by now, the other remains somewhere in her room.

Letter the first, written on a warm July evening:

_Dear Mrs. Potter_, she wrote.

The tip of her worn quill rested directly under her nose as she paused to think, and the feathers were tickling her nose. She sneezed, accidentally knocking over her bottle of ink onto the parchment. With a muttered curse, she leapt to her feet and began mopping up the spilled ink, turning the bottle right-side up again, and wishing desperately that she was of age to use magic so that she could have cleaned up the mess more easily.

She dumped the ink-stained shirt she had used to mop up with on the floor, and unrolled another scroll of parchment. She refilled her ink bottle, dipped her quill in twice, and wrote again.

_Dear Mrs. Potter, I need to ask you for advice. You see, I can't figure your son out. Everyone says that he's exactly like your husband, so I thought I'd ask you what to do about it. I'm ready to give up all hope, at this point. Some days, it seems as if he does fancy me, and other days it seems as though he's afraid to even admit that I exist. Then again, he's my brother's best friend, and he practically lives at our house during break. Should I even fancy him? Because, you see, the problem is that I still do, even when I probably shouldn't. And I know you fancied a Potter, once, because otherwise you wouldn't be Mrs. Potter, you'd still be a Miss Something-or-other. (I'm afraid that I don't know your name, though.) _

The scratching of the quill had lulled her into writing more candidly than she had planned to. And perhaps that had been overly presumptuous of her, to write a letter and not even really know Harry's mother's name.

Then again, perhaps it was overly presumptuous to write a letter to a dead person. She wrote that down, too, with an apology, and continued.

_I would very much have liked to ask you this in person if you had still been alive. But seeing as you aren't, I'm going to write this down and bury it. I don't really want to try summoning any ghosts, as I've had enough experience with dead possessive spirits (well, just one, but it was awful enough) to last me a lifetime. Someday, I hope that Harry will be able to see me for myself, and not just for Ron's little sister. I'll let you know how it all turns out, I promise._

She signed her name with a flourish and added the date to the bottom of the page. She rolled the parchment up tightly, and placed it in a bottle, which she would later take down to the garden to hide from the gnomes.

Someone called her name from below – a summon to dinner – and she shouted back a reply, standing up too quickly and knocking that month's issue of Witch Weekly down to the floor. The magazine remained open to the advice column, even after she had left the room, and it was plain to see that the page had been well-read. The beaming picture of the columnist pointed frantically to her advice: _Make sure to have a good relationship with his parents. Keep communications levels open and friendly. Remember: if you can trust your man, you should be able to trust them, too. _

Letter the second, written on a foggy July evening some time later:

_Dear Mrs. Potter_, she wrote again, with a new quill this time, and much more rapidly. _Harry and I were together for a while but now he's going off to be tragically and stupidly heroic and has decided to leave me out of it in an attempt to be even more of a sacrificial hero. Is this a family trait? I suppose that's horribly vicious of me to say, because I know that's how his father di-- Well. You did too, I suppose._

She faltered. That was not the way she meant to ask. Perhaps it wasn't worth trying to be clever while writing. She shook her head, and continued to write, honestly this time, ignoring all the quips and jeers that had built up in her mind.

_But I don't understand why he thinks he can't take me along. He's taking Ron, and Hermione – they're all best friends, true, but I can't help but feel so very left out. I want to help him. I want to fight with him. I did it years ago, I could do it again – and every time I tell someone this, they look at me and see you. They look at me and think of you, because we both have red hair. They look at Harry and see your husband, because they look exactly the same. They see Harry and I and think of dear James and Lily (see, I found out what your name is), but then they don't seem to realize that we are not dead yet. _

Oh, Mrs. Potter, was your Potter so stupid and stubborn and loveable? Or did he get this all from you? I wish you could tell me. And I wish you were here and could tell Harry to stop being such a prat and to just trust me. We're both miserable over this, and it's so hard to see him and not be able to be with him. But, you know, I think you probably know what it's like to see someone and not be with them. I just-

I just what? she wondered, and realized that she did not know.

_Dear Mrs. Potter_, she wrote again, underneath the unfinished sentence. _Thank you for your time._

She signed her name and added the date, then rolled up the letter and put it behind a pile of worn-out Witch Weeklies.


	17. Girl Talk

Written for the September themes.

**Girl Talk  
**_26. 'Friendship improves happiness, and abates misery'_

_..what's the matter? I can't understand a word you're saying, start over, and sit down here, and--_

It's the end, I know it is, because I honestly don't see how my life can go on any longer. Don't you understand? I've been living for him, every waking moment... I can't tell you how many pages I've filled up in my diary about this – no, never mind, you've seen my diary, you already know. Don't you?

_Yes, I know. _

I can't understand any of this, it's so awful. I thought he didn't see anything in her. I honestly thought he liked me— Oh, what's the use, there's no point in my going on like this.

_No, there isn't. You're being silly, and your nose is dripping, and you need a tissue._

Yes, I'd very much like a tissue. I just thought of something else, too—this is just like what I saw in those tea leaves last lesson, remember? Adversity in the face of joy? Remember how we both thought it was such rot, because it doesn't even make sense, grammatically. What are you making those faces at me for, anyway?

_I still think it's rot--_

Well, I thought it would be something silly again, like when he landed himself in the hospital wing when we were supposed to go and do something together, or I nearly passed out in Binns' class again, but I didn't expect it would be... well. This. It made sense, but I still can't quite believe it— and—it's so very—

_It's all right, don't worry about this – here, have another tissue, your nose is still dripping. Have you been crying for very long?_

Hours, it feels like. I've just been so miserable, I can't even begin to tell you, Parvati.

_Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, settle down, and tell me what this is all about. Did anything happen with Ron? _

Oh, everything's happened with Ron! He's just gone off and nearly gotten himself killed, not told me about it, and then avoided me for months on end, that's all! Nothing serious, mind you, except that he says he wants to end it and I saw him practically snogging Hermione Granger and it's—just—awful.

_That— that-- oh, Lavender, there aren't even words for him. Here, though, you still have me. Blow your nose, would you? And let's sneak down to the kitchens._

* * *

**author's notes**: This is the final update for Thirty Days, at this point in time, since the moderator has decided to close the community and will not be putting up any new themes. Thank you for reading! --and who knows, maybe this will be updated again, sometime in the future. :) 


	18. Afterwards

_Author's Notes_: No, this is not a new update. But it _is_ another story. My laptop, where I had kept most of the Thirty Days stories, had crashed about a year ago, and I just got it back this weekend. I found this story, and a few others, that for some reason I had never gotten around to uploading and so I thought I would post them here.

**Afterwards  
**29. _until I'm the last one left_

Well, that's that, the diploma's bagged, and I can go back to the real world and find a good job. It's not my idea of fun, I can tell you that, but I don't have much of a choice.

Y'see, Hogwarts was one of the last places real Wizardry could be found, after the Second War. All those Death Eaters swarming around wasn't very good for the Wizarding world, they thought it was part of the job to go on rampant crusades of destruction, take a few hostages along the way to torture, and whatnot. The stupider ones were the newest recruits, the ex-students who decided they'd get away from all the restraints and laws and go spread a little more hatred in the world. With all of them working together, they put Pureblood and Mudblood notions aside, and destroyed at will. Some of them were caught, and most of them died. A few are still causing trouble, but they're usually a bit disoriented once you get to them, and they're not too much trouble to take care of after that.

There's this picture, the one that finally condemned Draco Malfoy for really being a Death Eater, and it's him outside of Flourish and Blotts and he's burning the sign right off, laughing as if it was the funniest thing in the world. He had just started taking off his mask for a bit of a breather, and no one else has such a big long scar on their chin, that's for sure, so that's what proved it was really him. No one would have seen it if he hadn't gotten a bit uncomfy from all the heat, and if Colin hadn't been there to take such a brilliant photo. He sold it to the Prophet for a load of money, but by that time the load was worth less than a pile, maybe a couple pounds, at most, because the money trade was doing so very poorly. Flourish and Blotts was about the last store standing over at Diagon Alley, and when Malfoy burned it down that about wiped out half the Wizarding market.

Hogsmeade? Nothing's left there anymore. It was destroyed ages ago, maybe about the same time Dumbledore died, I really can't recall. Lots of stuff happened in the last couple of years. You know, I was going to try to be an Auror, but everyone said I would be better at being a Healer, so I ended up changing all my classes this year. I did brilliantly with my N.E.W.Ts, but nobody cares about those anymore. I have to start everything all over again, this year. That's an official edict from the Ministry of Magic. Well, technically, the official phrasing was 'An agreement of mutual abstraction, offering to all a fresh start, as a new era begins!!!!', but that really means 'You lot are going to go live with the Muggles and forget all about your magic, and if you don't we'll come after you'. And they would, and probably will, but they've got to live up to their agreement, too, and so there isn't really a Ministry anymore. No one knows where Scrimgeour went, after Harry Potter came and had a few words with him about You-Know-Who. Some people thought Harry might've taken over, but he vanished for good after that, and no one's seen hide nor hair of him since.

I can't help but wish Harry had done something more drastic, and heroic, like save this world from vanishing. Colin always had faith in him, and I did too, and so did Dad, even though he'd never really heard of him before, but it's hard for me to believe anything good about him now. Because now everyone's got to be a Muggle, and if anyone's born with magic then they've got to believe it's just luck, or a fluke, and no one's allowed to teach spells. We can use 'em, if we want, just not in broad daylight and not to do any harm. I expect they figure that we won't have much time for remembering spells if we're all trying to be Muggles again.

The Muggles don't know about any of this. They know that there've been some freak accidents, and a lot was passed off as bomb scares, or terrorist attacks, and they see that their own stock market is going down a bit, but they don't realize that's because the magic stocks on there don't exist anymore. And now that Hogwarts is definitely closing, there isn't anywhere for us all to stay. A lot of people have been pretending to be refugees from some silly country or another, and getting free apartments or extra money and maybe a job in the bargain. People have sympathy when you start talking about how awful the wars were to you, and if you tell the truth about how your house isn't there, your schools are closing down and now you can't find a place to live, then they're awfully likely to do something about it.

I wouldn't go up to a Muggle on the street and tell them all that, though, because I wouldn't last a minute before laughing the whole thing off as being too stupid to believe. Unless I was drunk again, maybe, because whenever I get drunk I start bawling about anything. You can always believe someone when they're crying their eyes out, because it's impossibly hard to lie and tear up at the same time. Colin always went to sleep right away when he drank. That was one thing we couldn't tell Dad, because he wouldn't like to hear that we tried different drinks, especially if they were 'foreign' drinks, with labels that talk or sparkle at you, let alone that we were both sorry drinkers.

Colin would have been fine with all this mess. He was fine before, and he would have been quite happy with documenting the New Era and making a report out of it, with BOLD HEADLINES like a newspaper and dates and official-looking things. He could have gotten a job anywhere, just by taking a photo of a fly, and showing how well it turned out. Colin's not like me, he never worried too much about his exams, just glided on through and documented it on the way. He always said he was doing it to show Dad what a fantastic other world there was, but after a while he kept more than he sent out. And here I am, wondering what N.E.W.Ts would mean in the Muggle system, and I can hear his voice in my head, laughing at me and telling me what a little idiot I'm being about this. It's supposed to be exciting, Dennis, a new start, and maybe it'll all be for the better. But I don't believe that, and I can't help it. It's nerves, and no sleep for the past week, and Dad--

I was going to ask Dad if I could work with him, as an assistant milkman, or something. I don't even know if there is such a thing. But he wasn't in the house when I checked, and everything was dusty, with nothing in the fridge. I was going to write a note, but all the pens were dried up, and Dad hated it when the pens dried up, so that made it worse. I didn't say goodbye when I left, because we all got used to not saying goodbye, after a while. Sometimes, just walking in the street, you could see just like that that they were going to die, almost as if it was spelled out above their head in fireworks. Other times, they would be happy, and the best you'd seen them yet, and then you'd find out that they were blasted into pieces last Tuesday and you'd missed the funeral. Not saying goodbye just made it a little bit easier to move on with life.

Goodbyes always made you think, too, and sometimes it was better not to think about the person you're saying goodbye to. Or to think about how Colin and I always made strange stuff happen, like lights flash, and one time my old bear turned furry, but Dad said it must've been the washing machine and to pay it no mind. When Colin got his letter, we all thought it was Colin who was making all the weird things happen, but then I got mine and we realized it was both of us, and that I wasn't going to be the odd brother who got to stay home in boring old real life and we all danced around the kitchen table, me and Dad and Colin, and we knocked over Mum's picture by accident but Colin and I repaired it at school.

You know, I guess I've got no choice but to move on. I can't stand here all day. The loss of a world was an awfully high price to pay for what the Death Eaters taught us - that life is very, very short.

But.. we were the first wizards in the family, probably the first ever. And it's easy to see how the rest of my life will be, how I'll probably end up being something incredibly plain, like a librarian, or a dentist, and that I'll marry a nice girl - after all, who could resist this face? - and we'll have nice, ordinary children and I'll get old, and they'll have children, and maybe one of them will be lucky or different, and I'll just let their parents explain it away, but I'll know what's really going on, but I won't say anything. Then I'll die, and I'll have been the last one, and maybe by then they'll have found Colin, so we can be buried next to each other. Or something.

And that's it. That's the end. There isn't anything more that any of us can do.

The story stops here.


	19. One Flew East, Two Flew West

_Notes_: Set during OotP, and uploaded under the same conditions as the previous story. Written as an alternate to what was uploaded here as 'Together'.

**One Flew East, Two Flew West**  
1. _all is change_

At the moment 93 Diagon Alley is nothing more than a dusty, empty room, with a storeroom in the back and a small attic space above it all.

"It looked much roomier before," Fred groans, referring to when they came by during the summer to inspect the premises and had found that the previous store (owned by a wizard who sold knitted items) might just be affordable.

"Well," says George, pulling out his wand. "Can't be helped. We have to do with what we've got. Locomotor trunks." He moves the trunks inside from just outside the door.

"Accio brooms," Fred summons, and he puts their brooms in the storeroom.

Together, they sigh, and set to work.

-

Later on, Fred and George will pile up blankets and pillows in the storeroom, attempting to create a makeshift bed. They could summon their beds from home, or sleeping bags from somewhere, but it has been such a long night of cleaning and arranging that they don't feel like doing anything else.

Later, they will look at the unfamiliar walls, and the unfamiliar ceiling, and hear the unfamiliar muffled sounds of late-night prowlers in the Alley, coming and going to the Leaky Cauldron. They will think of the round walls of Gryffindor Tower, and the scorch marks on the ceiling from errant sparks of magic, and miss the whiffling sound of Lee's snoring from behind his bed's curtains.

"Maybe we could expand the attic, make it a flat," Fred will suggest, and stick his wand into his sneaker.

"Yeah. That could work," George might reply, then yawn.

Only then will it fully sink just how much things have changed in the past twenty-four hours.

-

But it isn't later yet. 

-

At the moment Lee is sitting by the fireplace in Gryffindor common room and wondering why he couldn't have gone, too. He is the only one sitting so close to the fire, while the others sit by the windows that let in a cool breeze, all animatedly discussing Fred and George's exit. Usually, Lee would be there with the rest, commenting on and explaining various parts of their plan, but usually the twins would be somewhere close by, instead of being who-knows-where.

But then Angelina sits down at his feet and looks up at him, saying "Okay?" and Lee is forced to think about the present, without Fred and George, and has to come up with a response.

"Okay," he affirms, and she smiles and pats his foot.

They'll get through this together.


	20. Premonitions

_Notes_: Uploaded under the same conditions as the past two stories. This was written as an alternate to what was uploaded here as 'Nunc Id Vides'. Set the summer before OotP.

**Premonitions  
**4. _as we dream_

Dudley had a dream the other night, and it was weird. Freakish, in a way. He walked around Smeltings with a blank look on his face for days, Piers told him, and Dudley hit him with his stick but tried to look more natural after that.

The dream took more thought that dreams usually did, mostly because it was about Harry. And it was real, with too much unsaid that seemed like it had happened, although it obviously hadn't yet.

In the dream, Dudley was back at home, and he was playing his video games, as usual, and he couldn't get past the level. So he goes downstairs to get a snack, and in comes Harry, with his school trunk and everything. _I didn't know you were coming back_, Dudley says, and Harry just looks at him and says, "I'll be leaving soon, don't worry."

So Dudley gets his snack, and finds that it's an awfully funny dream, because usually in his dreams he can eat everything he wants, but the fridge only had carrots and lettuce and cheese and stupid healthy things. He takes a carrot, and goes back upstairs, and sees Harry in his room, folding some shimmery fabric, and instead of being terrified as he should have been he goes and asks what it is. Harry was acting normally, in the dream, and so he gapes at Dudley for a few seconds before he says "Well, this is an invisibility cloak, it was my dad's"; and Dudley just nods and thinks to himself, _this is odd_, and then the dream Dudley blurts out _Are you leaving for good_? And Harry says, "Yeah, I just needed to come back here one more time."

Dudley doesn't know what to say to that, because there's never been a house without Harry, so he leaves and goes back to his video game.

And he's playing, and swearing, and keeps getting stuck, and then he sees Harry passing by his door on his way downstairs and he says _D'you want to try playing this? I'm stuck_ and they look at each other, and Harry is pale as anything but comes in anyway. Now that Dudley thinks about it, Harry's been really pale, as if he expects something to jump out at him any second, and his weird scar's been a bit redder than usual, but other than that he looks as if he knows what he's doing, and so Dudley decided not to worry too much.

"That's the game you bought last year, isn't it?" Harry finally asks, watching him start the level over. Dudley grunts an affirmative, and tests the buttons before handing the console over. Harry pushes buttons, obviously an amateur, but he's already gotten farther than Dudley could. He runs and jumps away, and finally reaches the last enemy. Dudley gapes as Harry blasts the enemy with the laser gun, green light frying him, and Harry puts down the console and looks rather unnerved. _I guess it needed some magic_, Dudley says, and his eyes widen at the awful joke he's just made. Harry snorts, and nearly cracks a smile, averting his eyes from the screen.

"There's going to be a war, Dudley," Harry says, and stands up to go. "Please make sure your parents are safe, and happy. Especially your mum."

Dudley wants to laugh at him, and tell him he's a bloody idiot, what war could possibly happen? And if it's just a war between.. well, _his_ sort, what do they have to worry about? But his dream self seems to know differently, and he shivers, feeling a far away memory was over him, like never being happy again. He stands up, and shakes hands with Harry, and woke up muttering _Good luck_ to his pillow.

By the time summer came around, Dudley had forgotten all about his own dream, if only to taunt Harry about his nightmares. Whoever this Cedric person was, he's important to Harry, and he's sure to get a rise out of him.


	21. The Day Before Seven

_Notes_: Originally written for a 2005 December theme under similar conditions as the previous few chapters, posted here and removed, and edited and reposted 8/1/07. Happy late birthday, Neville. :)

**The Day Before Seven**  
24. _the storm of a kiss_

The July heat was stifling. The Cooling charms that were cast at least four times a day in the house did very little to hinder it, and only worked if all the windows were tightly shut. But Gran always insisted on healthy breezes blowing through the house because she believed it helped refresh the brain and lungs, so the windows were rarely shut. For a boy like Neville, seven years old tomorrow and still no sign of any magical ability, it was only understandable that his Grandmother would do everything she could to help him. If she could.

But for the moment it was hard to breathe, for the humidity wrapped tendrils of damp heavy heat around everything in its path. Neville had thought about going down to the pond to play with the frogs and the toads, but after walking halfway down the lane, the heat chased him home. The clouds rumbled as he shut the door tightly, gulping in the cool air from the release of the third Cooling charm of the day.

There had been no rain for three weeks. All of Neville's favourite plants in the garden were dying, dead, or wilted beyond recognition. He managed save a few by carefully watering them with the tea he didn't finish at teatime, until Gran said it was a waste of good tealeaves and that he wasn't to do it any more.

Neville had not seen Gran since breakfast. She usually spent the day in her room, writing letters or reading books, and sometimes just sitting very quietly by the window. Neville left her alone, and reveled in his temporary freedom. When Gran was busy, he could almost do whatever he wanted, and Gran was so often busy in July. Neville wasn't sure why, but he suspected that it had something to do with his parents.

The other children he played with sometimes all had Mummas who would come to fetch them home for dinner and Dads who carried them on his shoulder around the garden. Neville had neither Mother nor Father, Mumma nor Dad. His Gran was the one who swooped down on him to tell him that he shouldn't be playing in the mud, hadn't he _any_ sense at all, really; and his Gran was the one to tell him to clean up and look sharp, for Great-Uncle was coming to tea again and he ought to at least try to look neat. Neville sometimes wondered -- when he was trying very hard not to think too much about the sinister shadows on the wall, or the curious lumps under his bed -- why he didn't have parents. He would never ask Gran, never in a million hundred years, because Gran was tall, and sharp, and strict, and so very _Gran_. (He knew she wouldn't tell him, anyway.)

It was nearly lunchtime. Neville read a book in the library, being very careful not to smudge ink-y fingers on the pages (he had practiced his letters that morning), and finally gave up on the adventures of Tobias Tanner, Tinsmith of Timbuktu. His stomach growled, and the thunder grumbled back.

The air was too heavy, the smell of rain that would not fall wafting into the library, and Neville went to ask Gran if they couldn't eat lunch early. Perhaps she wouldn't mind doing another Cooling charm, if she did come downstairs, even though her Cooling charms weren't as good as old Blink the house-elf's.

He climbed up the stairs, round and round, and paused for breath at the landing. Gran's door was open, a good sign. He knocked, anyway, because knocking was the polite way to tell someone that you were going to enter and that they'd better be prepared. Neville had overheard his Gran tell a story about a girl who didn't say not to enter when someone knocked and shamed her fiancé (whatever that was) to such a degree that he postponed their wedding, because he felt ashamed that he had seen her changing her robes. Neville was not supposed to have heard that story, it was meant for one of Gran's visitors, who said it was simply shocking and then Neville broke the vase outside by accident, and he got scolded for eavesdropping and cracking the vase in yet another place. "_Reparo_ only goes so far, Neville," Gran had warned him, and with that memory in mind he peeked through her door.

Gran was sitting at her writing-desk, but all her quills were put away and there were no owls fluttering outside. Neville had faintly hoped to see an owl, because they were always very nice-looking and Gran let him give them an owl treat, but Gran straightened up and said "Come in, Neville," in a very tired voice.

Gran was sniffing very quietly as she leaned over a book that was filled with pictures, and Neville came to stand by her and snuck a quick look at a picture. It was a photograph, of a man and a woman sitting next to each other and beaming up at Neville, waving frantically. The woman's face was round and friendly, while the man's face was sharp like Gran's but he began waving even more energetically when he saw Neville looking.

"Are you alright, Gran?" Neville asked.

"I'm fine, thank you," Gran said, and sniffed again.

Gran noticed him looking at the photograph, and she turned the pages, putting more and more pages between Neville and the photograph of those happy people. The same people grinned up at him, sometimes together and sometimes alone, and he grinned back. In one picture the woman held an oddly shaped bundle, and in another Gran was holding the bundle, but this time it was a different-coloured bundle. Gran stopped turning pages, and reached for her handkerchief, and carefully dabbed at her face.

Neville stared at the photo of the bundle of blankets, and managed to make out a pair of ears and very scrunched up eyes. From the proud look on photograph-Gran's face, he realized that the bundle must be him.

"Are those people my parents?" he asked. "And is that me?"

"Yes," Gran said quietly. "They were your parents. That's you, there," she pointed, "and you're nearly a year old in that one."

Neville thought back to when he had tried to take a frog home from the pond. He had kept it in his jacket pocket, patting it down when he felt it twitch and try to wriggle its way out. Soon, it wasn't moving, and he ran to show Gran and ask her what to do. "Oh, Neville," Gran had sighed, "that frog couldn't live here. It needed the water." Neville had examined the immobile frog in his hand. "So it isn't a frog anymore?" he asked, and Gran said "Well, it _was_ a frog," and told him to give it to her and she would put it where it should go, and he never saw it again.

'Were,' Gran said, about his parents, like she said about the frog.

"Why don't they live with you and me, Gran?" Neville asked. "Are they dead?"

"No," said Gran. "They're alive. They live... they live somewhere else."

She shut the book, and stood up. "I'm going to tell you a story, Neville," and she went to open a window, letting the humid storm-smell come in, "so come and sit by me."

Neville dutifully sat next to her on the hard small sofa, and prepared to listen.

"Once, there were two people, named Frank and Alice, and they loved each other very much," Gran began. "They decided to get married after they finished school, and lived together happily in the country. But they had heard about a War that was ruining the country, because bad people were coming to try and destroy everything, and so they decided to join in the fight. Frank and Alice fought bravely, and eventually the evil Dark Wizard who started the War was destroyed by a young boy named Harry Potter. The War ended, and Frank and Alice had a boy of their own, whom they loved very much. But one day the Dark Wizard's friends came and found Frank and Alice, and attacked them and hurt them very badly. Frank and Alice went to the hospital to recover, and their little boy came to live with his Gran."

"The little boy is me, isn't it?" said Neville. "Although I'm not that little any more, Gran, I'm seven tomorrow. And is that why you're sad? Because my parents aren't here?"

Gran smiled faintly. "Yes. They've been gone for nearly seven years. I miss your parents terribly, Neville."

"So why not just go and see them?" Neville said, frowning. "Hospitals let you visit, don't they?"

"Your parents are not aware of many things, Neville," said Gran. "They often do not recognize a visitor. They no longer have the senses which normal wizarding folk possess. The people who attacked them took all of that away from them."

An owl began tapping at the window, ducking out of the way of a stray lightning bolt, and knocking loudly on the pane to ask for permission to enter the room. Neville looked down at his scuffed shoes, and promptly made up his mind. He threw his arms around Gran, gave her an impulsive kiss on the cheek, and said "I'm sorry, Gran," before sliding off the sofa.

He had almost made it to the door, wondering if anyone else could tell him more about his parents, before he remembered what else he wanted to say. He turned to his grandmother, and wondered, "Could I meet them, sometime? My parents?"

His Gran looked even more startled, and smiled, eyes glistening as she unlatched the special owl window in the glass. "Would you like to meet them tomorrow, Neville? For a birthday present?" she asked. "We could walk around Diagon Alley afterward, if you'd like."

Neville nodded energetically and fled the room. Halfway down the stairs, he realized that he was still hungry, and shrugged. Gran would be down soon enough.

The thunder rumbled and the clouds drew closer together, becoming blacker with each passing minute.


	22. If Life Were Made of Moments

_Author's Notes_: Written under the same conditions as the previous chapters. Edited 1/9/08 to fix the ghastly typos that seemed to have cropped up. (My bad!)

**If Life Were Made of Moments**  
29._such brackish joys_

Well, here they were, two people in the middle of their lives when just last week they had been in school. Or so it seemed. Molly mentioned that over dinner, and Arthur reasoned that that would mean that their lives were very short, and he really preferred not to think that, and Molly said oh don't be silly dear. They had a quiet evening, just like every other evening they had had since Ginny went to school, and Arthur read the Evening Prophet while Molly began knitting a sweater to send to Charlie.

The fire blazed up suddenly, and Molly dropped a stitch but didn't mind so much when she saw whose head appeared.

"Bill!" she cried, putting her knitting to the side and leaning more towards the fireplace.

"Hello, Mum," Bill's head said, "I don't have much time at the moment so I was just wondering whether it would be all right if I dropped by tomorrow?"

"Of course," Molly said. "Can you stay for lunch?"

"Well, I hope we--" he paused, and looked over his shoulder and cried "Half a minute!- I have to go, sorry Mum, see you tomorrow."

And just like that, the fire crackled and Bill vanished.

"I wonder what that was about," Arthur mused. "He did sound rather rushed."

"I wonder what he meant by 'we'," Molly added, and picked up her knitting once more.

-

Well, here they were, two old folks waiting for their son to Apparate in, to which Molly said I am not old thank-you-very-much and Arthur laughed and apologized. They made sandwiches together, without magic, because Arthur claimed he felt useless having nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon and Molly reasoned that they had enough time.

Finally, the hands of the clock turned and the small hand labeled 'Bill' landed on 'Home'. The kitchen door opened, and Bill came in, throwing a quick "Watch your step" behind him. Molly and Arthur exchanged a glance.

"Hello, dear," Molly said cheerily, hugging her eldest. "You've brought company, have you?"

Bill's ears turned pink, and he said "Well, yes. I hope it's not too much trouble.."

A slender girl with long, silvery blonde hair appeared suddenly from behind him. "Bill, you have not eentroduced me!"

"Good heavens," Arthur murmured, and wiped his hands on his pants.

"Mum, Dad, this is Fleur Delacour," Bill said, grinning sheepishly.

Molly's smile faltered, but she valiantly stepped forward and shook the girl's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Fleur."

"Charmed," said Fleur, appearing anything but as she looked around the small kitchen.

"Hang on, you were in the Tournament a few years back, weren't you?" said Arthur, stepping forward in his turn to shake hands, taking just a moment too long to let go.

"_Oui_, I participated een ze Triwizard Tournament," said Fleur, but corrected herself at a stern look from Bill. "I mean, _yes_. I did."

"Fleur works with me at Gringotts," Bill explained. "She was looking for a tutor in English, and I offered to help. We've become quite good friends."

"Bill 'as 'elped me very much," Fleur agreed, and smiled at him with radiant white teeth. "My Eengleesh 'as been much eemproved."

"It seemed quite good already," Arthur said, sheepish.

Molly cleared her throat. "Well. We have sandwiches, if you're both hungry. Shall we eat?"

She busied herself with the platter of sandwiches, leaving Arthur and Bill to settle where to put their cloaks and who would sit where. Company! And a Veela girl, no less! Bill was usually such a considerate boy, it was no wonder that he hadn't remembered to tell them he was bringing someone. She wished she had had time to clean the kitchen again.

"Your 'ouse ees so.. _unique_," Fleur was saying, just as Molly charmed the plates and silverware over to the table.

"Sandwich?" she said brightly, placing the platter down.

"Thanks, Mum," Bill said, helping himself.

Fleur had taken a miniscule, dainty bite out of her sandwich, her napkin carefully placed on her lap. "We would not dream of eating een ze kitchen, at 'ome. Eet would be improper, I theenk."

"We quite like eating in our kitchen," Molly said firmly. "It's cozy."

"You know, Fleur's family's quite well off, in France," Bill said. "But it doesn't seem worth it to have a mansion anymore, some of the Muggle-repellant charms the law requires are nearly Auror-level."

"But Cursebreakers know zem, too," Fleur added, looking at Bill with an expression that could only be described as simpering.

Bill laughed, a similar expression developing on his face. "That's true."

Arthur gave Molly a nudge. They both knew what it meant, of course, that their baby boy – heartbreaker that he was – had finally brought home a girl. But Molly couldn't find it in herself to nudge him back. It must have been that girl's doing.

"Pumpkin juice?" Molly said abruptly, waving the jug over.Her smile felt plastered on, but as long as it stayed on, it was fine.

"So, Fleur, what do you do at Gringotts?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, zis and zat," she said breezily, tossing back her silvery hair. "I am an asseestant treasurary, now, and I 'elp classify ze artifacts brought back to ze bank."

"How fascinating," Arthur said, sincerely.

"She's quite wonderful at it, too," Bill added. "She's very good with Egyptian archaeological finds. Knows the history like the back of her hand."

"Eet was my 'obby in school," Fleur said modestly. "At Beauxbatons, we were allowed to study what we weeshed, as long as we still studied ze important theengs. I liked Egypt."

Molly ate her sandwich. Arthur asked more questions, and they found out about Fleur's family (parents, a younger sister), her many other talent in charms (her perfect sponge cake, light as air, and not heavy like _Eenglish_ cake) and potions, how she and Bill had lessons together for at least twice a week, how they often worked together on classifying new discoveries…

Bill was in the middle of yet another anecdote wherein Fleur had enchanted some particularly irate goblins away from his desk when the clock chimed and the kettle began to boil hot water.

Molly jumped to her feet. "Tea, anyone?" she said brightly.

Bill glanced at his pocket watch. "No thanks, Mum, it looks like it's time for us to be off."

"Zank you very much, Mrs. Weasley, for ze deleecious lunch," Fleur said, smiling prettily. Her first sandwich lay on her plate, half-eaten.

"We've quite enjoyed the company, haven't we Molly?" Arthur said, walking over to the door.

"Very much," said Molly.

There was a bustle of cloaks and goodbyes and thankyous, with more handshaking, and then Fleur left first.

Molly stood at the door and watched her go. As the girl walked to the Apparition spot, she suddenly realized that Fleur still seemed very young. The figure standing there, hands thrust deeply into her cloak's pockets, looked so tiny.

"Are you serious about this one, then?" Arthur said jokingly, clapping a hand on Bill's shoulder.

"I think she might be the one," Bill said, suddenly uncertain. "Look, I know she seems snobby, but she really isn't. She has a good heart. She doesn't really mean half the things she says."

"Don't worry about it, dearest," Molly said, kissing her eldest. The girl was only a child, after all. She'd still grow up.

"Thanks," Bill said, kissing her back, and ran to catch up with Fleur.

They Apparated arm-in-arm just before the door shut.

-

"Well, here we are again," Arthur said that night at dinner. "Very good potatoes, dear."

"I wonder what will happen next," Molly mused.

"I suppose we'll be grandparents," Arthur said.

Molly considered this. It would mean there would be more sweaters to knit.

Perhaps it wouldn't be all bad.


	23. Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts Champion

_Author's Notes_: Written under the same conditions as the previous chapters. Originally meant for the January themes, and written not long after GoF came out in theatres, so!

**Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts Champion**  
13. _hold Infinity in the palm of your hand_

One minute you held a wand, one minute you were alive and pacing, and your heart thumping more and more rapidly out of fear and expectation and then--

Then, there was nothing. You held nothing. You saw nothing. You were nothing. You felt your nothingness be drawn to a strong source of power, radiating hate and greed, things you yourself hated in your lifetime but now, now it was the only thing to hold on to. You let a bit of yourself be pulled into the wand that sent forth the spell to kill you, and clung to that last bit of magic that you could feel.

You waited. You waited, in nothing, part of your soul clinging to the dark magic and the rest in nothingness. You waited for ages, years, minutes by yourself among other whispers. Just nothing. Just a feeling to stay, not to pull away. Just the sounds and the feel of magic, far away, living breathing beating.

Then there was light, and song, and happiness and more power than you've ever felt before, and you felt like you had been yanked through a Portkey and suddenly you could see. You could hear, you could hear Harry talking to the man who killed you. You could hold on to the light, with every inch of your self, and stay just long enough to give a message. To protect.

You fought. You fought against the dark, against the spells that shot through you without making a single mark and would have killed Harry. You fought for what felt like forever, every part of your body struggling to break away and back to the nothingness. You fought with courage and loyalty and all the knowledge and cunning you could muster.

One minute you were there, and then you were gone.


End file.
